The Veselovsky Method
by azimova.alyona
Summary: the veselovsky method (n.) how to be innocent and completely guilty - anastasia au (syoc open)
1. Disclaimer - Part One

_**Disclaimer:**_ "_The Veselovsky Method" is based upon the fictional story of Anastasia (primarily the musical version but with less communism) and the Selection. This story uses references to many real historical events and places, but they are only used in a fictional purpose. I am not from Russia (although I am ethnically Russian, as my name may indicate that I am) or Russian Orthodox, so please excuse any cultural/religious inaccuracies on my part. My sources for this story include Wikipedia and my basic knowledge of Russian culture. In addition, this story may or may not become a small SYOC depending on the reception after a few chapters. Story information (update schedules and more) will be in my profile._

_Thank you for your patience and for reading my story!_

_/_

_PART ONE_

* * *

_** EXORDIA**_


	2. Chapter One

_Chapter One_

A thousand memories ago, Ilya once saw a Tsarevna.

She was not that much younger than himself, perhaps only by a year or two at the time. Nonetheless, they were both children under the eyes of God above. But children of the same world, as much as he wished, they could never be. Yet, for a single moment, those many years ago, Ilya felt as if they knew each other entirely.

The young boy would never forget the small and gentle smile of the Tsarevna. He could still feel his heart bursting with warmth as if it were the very day of their meeting. In a crowd of thousands and thousands, their eyes had met. He had pushed through the crowd to keep her gaze. There was a twinkle in her blue eyes when he tripped on cobblestone in the street. But he pulled himself up off the ground to call out her name.

A name he could never forget.

"Ilya Nikolayevich, for the last time! _Wake up_!"

"_Net_," the young man grumbled, refusing to depart from his daydream.

_Whack!_

Ilya yelped loudly as his chair fell over and he crashed onto the floor, hitting his head on an unused sack of flour. The seams of the burlap sack burst and flour spilled all over his head and chest Hastily shaking flour out of his hair, Ilya glared at the rackety, old broom held by Alexandra Sergeevna Mikhailova.

"What the hell, Sasha?" he yelled angrily, shoving the busted sack away. He could tell that his blonde friend was smirking without having to look, although he was a bit distracted by the flour in his eyes and the pain in his ass from landing on the stone floor.

"We have orders to finish, _Ilyusha_," she teased, using another one of the many nicknames she knew he hated. "Can't leave the customers waiting on the first day of Vasyutin!"

_How could he forget? _Vasyutin was a celebration once every spring in honor of Tsar Alexei Yuryevich Vasyutin, who was celebrating the decennial of his reign this year. Personally, Ilya thought the holiday was nothing compared to the celebrations of the old Vasyutin royals. But he would never dare say a word of his thoughts in their town, which was only fifty kilometers away from the capital of Moscow where Tsar Alexei Yuryevich reigned.

"I want to sleep," Ilya grumbled.

She ignored him. "I heard from Maria Andreeva that Irina Stepanova's family is planning a banquet and mama said that almost every family in town ordered at least a dozen cakes and pastries, which means that we'll outsell the Sokolovs for certain this year!" Alexandra recalled excitedly. Without a doubt, the seventeen-year-old took after her father with her talent for baking; but she was the most similar to her mother when it came to handling finances and competition with the other bakeries. She even took it upon herself to warm up to Maria Andreeva, an upcoming gossip that had the ability to rival even the most experienced. Together, they managed to steer almost every family in the Moscow Oblast into their little bakery.

Ilya was about to respond with a question about the Stepanovs, especially their pretty daughter Irina, whom he may or may not had a fling with a year back. But three loud stomps from the floor upstairs gave Ilya and Alexandra the order to head up to the bakery shop. They glanced at each other with knowing looks and Ilya sighed tiredly. Spring brought a string of holidays, which meant early mornings and late nights for him. Ilya took one step towards the stairs leading up from the basement but stopped upon the realization that he was still covered with flour. Alexandra giggled at his appearance and handed him a towel left on the table he'd taken a nap on. Waking up at five in the morning wasn't the preferred lifestyle of everyone.

"Here." Alexandra brushed some flour off his cheek with a cheeky grin. "Clean up, take that batch of Pirozhki out of the oven to cool, then come upstairs. I'll stall for you, but be quick."

* * *

"Ilyusha! A letter from Tolya came in the mail today!"

"Who?"

Ilya knew exactly who Anatoly Sergeevich Mikhailov, his adopted brother for nine years, was. They were born only a few months apart, with Anatoly as the elder, and their fathers had been good friends. So, the day that Ilya's father passed, he was taken in by the Mikhailov family and found both a playmate and rival in Anatoly. But, as it seemed, the elder of them won their rivalry. Anatoly was studying at university miles away in the grand city of Moscow to enter politics while Ilya was baking Pirozhki at five in the morning.

Alexandra did not seem to find his joke as funny as he did. "It's Anatoly, you _pridurok._"

"_Sasha_," warned Sergey Mikhailov, entering the front of the bakery while balancing several trays of warm poppy seed rolls. "Be kind to Ilya."

"Sorry Papa," Alexandra sighed.

Sergey couldn't help but smile at his youngest child. "Now, why don't you read the rest of Tolya's letter. And read it aloud, _dochenka_."

Alexandra's mood instantly lifted. She flipped open the envelope and practically ripped out the letter. "Hello dear family," she read brightly, "I hope you are having a good Vasyutin. The celebrations are quite beautiful here in Moscow and we have been given time off from our studies for the next six days. I know that the bakery is full of business, _but _I was wondering if Sasha and Ilya would like to join me in Moscow for the next few days of celebration! Sasha can tour my university in preparation for her graduation and Ilya can...get out of the bakery for once." A pause, then, "can we go? Please!"

A personality trait that Alexandra possessed all to herself was, without a doubt, her volatility.

"Well," Sergey trailed off in thought, "your brother is right. The bakery is very busy at the moment due to the holidays. But—"

Alexandra stared at her father intently.

"—I think it would be a wonderful opportunity for you to see universities, Sasha. Although I'm not sure how I feel about having you go off alone to Moscow for your first trip without us."

Alexandra's blue eyes turned pleading. "But Ilyusha is invited too! And he's twenty, so he can be my guardian!"

"I don't know, Sasha," Ilya sighed dramatically, "business is pretty tight. I need to stay to help with all the orders coming in. Unless you can get someone to fill my shifts."

Alexandra straightened with the idea of a challenge. "Papa," she addressed her father with posture like a soldier, "if I find someone to fill Ilyusha's place in the bakery, can we go to Moscow?"

Sergey chuckled. "I don't see why not. But this person must be a good worker. And mama must approve."

Alexandra nodded stiffly. Maria Pavlova was a tough, strict, Russian mother, but she loved her only daughter more than anything else in the world. If Sasha really wanted something, she would get it.

"Who is that I hear talking about me?"

Alexandra took a deep breath. "It was me, mama."

The short, sharp-eyed Maria carried two trays of Paska cakes yet to be glazed that she placed on a back counter. "Ilya, get the Borodinsky bread out of the oven," she said curtly to her adopted son. Ilya nodded without hesitation and moved past his adopted mother to complete her command. Behind him, the family continued conversing.

"What does Tolya's letter say, Sasha?" Maria Pavlova asked. Although she hid her emotions well, Maria was always eager for news of her eldest child.

"Tolya invited Ilyusha and me to Moscow for the rest of Vasyutin!" happily answered Alexandra.

"No." Sasha's excited face shrunk. "We have too many orders and too little time to finish them all, especially if you and Ilya leave. What would you even do in Moscow?"

Ilya yelped after touching the hot tray of bread, having forgotten to put on gloves.

"I can get someone to help in the kitchens while we're gone, mama!"Maria huffed, putting her hands on her wide hips. "And who do you suggest?"

Alexandra opened her mouth to answer.

"Don't you say that Maria Andreeva girl!"

Alexandra closed her mouth, looking guilty.

Sergey chuckled at his wife and daughter, placing a gentle hand on his wife's shoulder. "Masha, my _milaya_," he said affectionately, "give Sasha some time to find someone other than that girl. I'm sure there's some young, eager child willing to help out in exchange for a few sweets."

"Why should we find some strange child when we have our own workers that work for free," argued Maria grumpily, save for the affectionate touch of her hand on her husband's arm.

"I promise that I'll find you someone good, mama," stated Alexandra, taking her mother's hand in her own.

Ilya watched the scene quietly. He kept still, afraid to make a noise and break the peaceful silence of the family before his eyes. But little did he know, it was too late for the Mikhailov family and himself.

It all started with that damned trip to Moscow.


	3. Chapter Two

_Chapter Two_

Tsesarevich Maxim Alexeevich of the Russian Empire considered himself a religious person. He attended church every Sunday and wore a cross around his neck every day without fail. He was faithful. But some days it was difficult to stay true to his faith. Maxim could still remember the cold spring day in Saint Petersburg when he followed his mother's coffin through the Church of the Savior on Spilled Blood. He cried and questioned why God would take away his mother so young if He was real. God did not answer him; only the eyes of the Apostles above and the comforting words of his younger cousin sent him any thoughts.

Many years had passed since his mother's death, but they were not peaceful years. Only Maxim and his father remained of their once numerous royal family, and both he and his father were growing older. In retrospect, Maxim should have expected the announcement sooner, but his father's decennial marked an important discussion of the future.

"I recommend three candidates from each federal district and one candidate from Capital City instead of two," suggested Advisor Obolensky, "twenty-five candidates in all. And for location." He brought out a list. "We have several options. The Grand Kremlin Palace, Peterhof, Gatchina, Tauride, or Tsarskoye Selo.

Maxim nodded, staying silent. He was not particularly loquacious, nor did he feel like discussing his selection. Although he was twenty-two, the young man readily allowed his father and his advisors to make most of the decisions regarding his life. When Tsar Alexei told him that he was to have a selection, which had not taken place for over three hundred years, Maxim immediately recognized the dire situation and agreed. Now he was to allow a mixture of twenty-five common and noblewomen to compete for his hand.

"It would be more suitable to our time and money constraints to hold the selection in Moscow than Saint Petersburg," said Tsar Alexei, bringing forth murmurs of agreement from the council. Maxim sighed with disappointment internally. His father never liked Saint Petersburg, Maxim's birthplace and the former capital; it was always something about the weather and the people that the Tsar couldn't stand. "The Grand Kremlin Palace is best suited to our needs and of the future Tsarina's."

The truth of the matter was that their empire had spent too many years without a Tsarina. Centuries of tradition insisted upon a _trias politica_ structure of power—a legislature controlled by a state-elected Prime Minister and executive and judiciary branches controlled independently by either the Tsar or the Tsarina. Tsar Alexei controlled both the executive and judiciary branches for ten years now, which made more than a few persons and federal ministers in the country uncomfortable. But his father was a good leader, better than many on the council of ministers would like to admit.

"Do you agree, Maxim?" asked the Tsar expectantly.

Maxim froze, gripping his pencil. "Yes-yes, I agree. Our government is centered in Moscow, so it would only make sense to train the future Tsarina here."

Alexei smiled and nodded in approval, allowing a wave of relief to fall over Maxim. His father told him a few months ago that, to prepare him for commanding his own council meetings in the future, he would begin putting him on the spot to answer questions and make decisions. Although Maxim's first thought was that his father was purposely trying to give him a heart attack, he knew the Tsar only had the best intentions. But it didn't change the fact that Maxim didn't like surprises.

"To review the official decisions," said Prime Minister Konstantinov, who was a large, balding man and the only commoner among a council of nobles, "the location of the selection will be set in the Kremlin Palace. The selected candidates from each district shall be chosen by their federal minister. But what of the candidate from Capital City?"

"I will choose the Moscow candidate," decided Tsar Alexei firmly.

"Very well." Prime Minister Konstantinov made a note. "And we can confirm the announcement will be made at the end of the week?"

"Yes," the Tsar confirmed, "I will make the announcement to the people of Moscow on Sunday after the Divine Liturgy. The message will be spread through Russia throughout the following week. Applicants will be given the end of March to the first half of April to complete their application forms. The candidates will be announced on the last day of April and the selection will take place from May through August." He eyed his son. "Maxim, do you agree with the plan?"

This time, the Tsesarevich was more prepared. "Yes, I agree completely."

"And I have been narrowing down the list of applicants for the junior political advisor positions," Konstantinov informed the Tsar, "all they need is your stamp of approval, Your Majesty."

"Very well." The Tsar shuffled his papers and folders. "Send the applications to my office and I'll review them. Now, let's conclude this meeting here and we can meet again tomorrow at noon to discuss schedules and transportation details." A rumble of agreement came from the council members, who began their own private conversations that Maxim only picked up a few words from.

"Maxim," said his father in a quiet voice once all the advisers were distracted. "Come with me. I need to discuss something with you privately."

"Yes, father," obeyed Maxim.

Alexei led him out of the council room and they walked silently until they reached Andreyevsky Hall—the throne room. Like the rest of the Kremlin Palace and most palaces in Russia, it was grand, dramatic, and, most importantly, gold. Heavy, dark blue curtains rimmed with gold covered the huge windows that looked over the Moskva River. The room would've been shrouded in darkness if it wasn't for the eight golden chandeliers that hung between the Corinthian order columns that lined the hall. At the end of the hall rested only a single golden throne against an indigo wall and beneath a golden sun with the eye of God.

"Maxim," Alexei began, appearing uncharacteristically uncomfortable, "I know you must be wondering why I brought you here. The answer is that I was concerned about your well-being in the selection." And at that moment, Tsar Alexei changed from the ruler of the Russian Empire to a concerned father.

"It's alright, father," Maxim assured with a gentle smile, "I am prepared to accept my duty as the Tsesarevich. The country _needs _a Tsarina."

Alexei smiled, a rare action only a few ever witnessed. "You are a good, intelligent young man, Maxim. I trust that you will make the right decision." Maxim felt his heart beat with happiness. "But what I am concerned about is that you will choose a woman best for the country over that your heart may feel. There hasn't been a selection for over three hundred years, much less one involving common women, which means you have no adviser to help guide you during the experience."

"I have you, don't I?" Maxim asked, his eyebrows furrowed and his mind confused.

"You will," his father answered hesitantly, "but I don't want you to feel that I'm controlling your choices over who you choose to..._love_."

"Father, I _promise _that I will make the right choice and I won't disappoint you," Maxim reassured. The only thought in his mind was to prove to his father that he would be able to be a good leader and make all the correct decisions as his father did. Alexei smiled at his son, of fear, love, and pride it seemed to be. For the Tsar knew that if his cherished son knew the truth he would turn his back forever like Alexei once did for his own kin.

Tsar Alexei protected his only son and heir from all the troubles and tribulations in the world that he could. It wasn't until recent years that he allowed Maxim to listen to and participate in council meetings. Many of the council members once served on the old Tsar's council, which meant Alexei never had their entire respect and trust. Once he took rule, he had limited their allowed spending, increased taxes on both nobles and rich citizens, and ruled alongside the first non-noble Prime Minister in all of Russia's history. He even switched the capital of Russia from Saint Petersburg to Moscow. The consequences of his actions caused many of the most important noble families to turn away from his rule. Although he was getting older, Alexei was not eluded of their quiet whispers of disposing of him.

Alexei kept up his smile. "Good, now do me a favor and go to the kitchens. They are too understaffed for the upcoming celebrations and events. Ask for the estate manager and figure out the amount of staff we need to hire. Give the lists to Konstantinov and he'll make the new protégés he hired work out the details."

"Of course, father."

And with those words, Maxim left. Leaving Tsar Alexei Yuryevich all alone in the throne room. Alexei gazed up at the golden and indigo decorations and ornaments, suddenly feeling young again. Although it was over twenty-five years ago when he had met his own beloved, he always felt youthful when he recalled his adventures sneaking out of Peterhof on those hot summer nights to meet with his lower-ranking future wife. Alexei once traveled over three kilometers on foot to reach her family's summer villa, which her family had purposefully placed her in to keep them apart. He smiled soulfully to himself at the memory. Although he was heavily criticized, Alexei insisted upon a selection with both commoners and noblewomen. He had fallen in love with the poor daughter of a Baron, whose family might as well have been commoners if it wasn't for their hereditary title. Alexei wanted his son Maxim to grow up in a different world than the one he was raised in. A world where Maxim could marry whoever he loved without judgment or breaking the law.

After all, no one should be kept apart from those they love.


	4. Chapter Three

_Chapter Three_

It took Ilya a full hour to comprehend where he was.

He could remember everything that led up to this point in great detail. Waking up on the first day of Vasyutin in a sack of flour, dreaming about a face he couldn't quite picture, Alexandra receiving an invitation to Moscow from Anatoly, her begging Sergey and Maria to let her go, her convincing a young Ivanov son ("the Belarusians, not the religious ones," she told him) into helping with the bakery, and stepping onto the most luxurious train he had ever seen in his life.

Yet, Ilya still couldn't believe how Alexandra managed to convince him to travel with her to Moscow. It wasn't exactly like he wanted to see Anatoly and the life he always secretly wished he had right before his eyes.

Alexandra slept against a stack of pillows across from him in their small, private train compartment. Her long blonde hair was tied back to prevent it from catching on the brass buttons on the sides of the carriage. Ilya smiled at her, although not understanding how she could be so calm when he was so nervous. Perhaps she wore herself out from all her excitement the previous day, which didn't help when they had to wake up at five in the morning to catch their Moscow-bound train.

Ilya glanced out the window at the passing forest, which was becoming thinner as they approached the boundaries of the capital city. They had already passed multiple small villages and farms, and he watched the little children stare in awe at the red trains zooming by while smiling at his own memories of watching the trains. The place they grew up in was known as a rail junction, where the train stations were larger than the town itself. He and Anatoly had grown up watching the trains traveling from utterly foreign cities like Almaty and Kyiv, wondering if they would ever travel that far. Perhaps Anatoly would one day travel as they wished as children if he hadn't already.

Ilya frowned. He mustn't show his bitterness, especially not in front of Alexandra or Anatoly. He knew well that agreeing to this trip would be difficult for his conscience, but Ilya swore to himself that he wouldn't ruin this trip for his adopted sister.

A quiet whistle blew and alerted Ilya to look outside the train. He was instantly blown away by the heavy forests they had been traveling through abruptly disappearing and giving away to kilometers of barren land. It looked like a graveyard, far from the beautiful city of Moscow he had once thought of. Oblivious in her sleep, Alexandra slowly stirred awake as the train entered the borders of the city. They zoomed pass a district of tall, old, grey industrial buildings filled with people who didn't give the slightest glance towards the trains. Muscovites probably saw more trains from thousands of foreign places in a day than Ilya had seen all his life.

"Sasha," Ilya called softly. The blonde girl rubbed her eyes and yawned. "We're almost there." Alexandra's sleep-filled eyes stared at him with a hint of confusion. Amused, he chuckled and tapped on the window pane, drawing her attention to outside their cabin. They were finally pulling into the busy Paveletsky railway station. Alexandra's eyes widened comically and she shot out of her seat.

"Get the bags, Ilyusha," she cheered, "we're in Moscow!"

"Really? I didn't notice," joked Ilya. She threw open the carriage doors and he grabbed their luggage from the compartment above their heads. Two suitcases and three heavy duffel bags. "_Sasha_," he called out to the overly-excited girl, "you can't expect me to carry all these by myself, can you?"

Alexandra flashed a face of annoyance and walked back to their cabin. "Weakling," she huffed under her breath. She was infamous for hating carrying anything heavy. Ilya heaved the heaviest duffel bag over his shoulder, took the largest suitcase, and pretended not to hear her remark. Childhood malnutrition paid off more than he'd like to admit and he was still as thin as a rail. Alexandra lugged the other suitcase with a duffel bag hanging over the handles and one over her shoulders. He followed suit and they got into the slow line of people moving out of the train. Roughly ten minutes later, the pair stepped onto the wet, chilly Paveletsky station platform. Ilya regretted not putting on his wool coat as the early spring wind bit his face.

"Tolya!" yelled Alexandra at the sight of her elder brother emerging from the platform crowd. Ilya cursed when Alexandra dropped her suitcase and bags on the puddled ground and ran to Anatoly, who was waiting for her with open arms. The two siblings embraced in a tight hug and began talking amiably without regard for their adopted brother struggling with their bags.

"Some help, please!" Ilya yelled in a huff. Anatoly looked over at Ilya with a smile, while the younger boy drew a blank face as he acknowledged his rival's presence.

"Let me help you with that," Anatoly said, walking over and easily lifting the two duffel bags Alexandra had dropped over his broad shoulders. He was dressed formally—with slicked-back hair and a tailored Moscow suit.

"Thanks," said Ilya curtly.

"Well, Tolya, tell us! What have you been doing in Moscow?" piped up Alexandra, not missing a beat. Ilya followed behind the two siblings as they made their way to exit the station.

"Quite a lot, actually," Anatoly said casually, "School and my current internship are taking up most of my time these days, but I have met some very interesting people. The children of former generals, council members, nobility, and such. In fact, I'm applying for an internship in the Kremlin over the summer. There have been reports that the Tsar is planning a big event soon and he wants to recruit new, young personnel."

While Alexandra exclaimed about how amazing Anatoly was. An unimpressed Ilya asked, "why would the Tsar want a second-year university student working for him?"

Anatoly laughed at him. But Ilya could see his jaw clenching, which Anatoly always did whenever he was annoyed with Ilya. "The position wouldn't be permanent. According to the application, it would begin in May and end in August. But it would be a great chance to make good connections with the royal family and the council."

"What royal family? Aren't they almost all dead?" Ilya snorted. But his plan to tick off his adopted brother backfired. Alexandra looked shocked, and Anatoly looked infuriated.

"The Tsar and the Tsesarevich are still well and alive," Anatoly hissed in a whisper, "and you should watch your mouth in Moscow. You might be able to get away with that back home, but the walls have ears here."

"Alright, fine," said Ilya, backing down with his hands in the air. "I'm sorry. I was being rude."

"Good," Anatoly said, although he looked less than satisfied. Ilya had to stop himself from rolling his eyes as he regained hold of the two suitcases he was pulling and continued walking behind the sibling pair.

Alexandra brightened. "Tolya, where _are _you taking us? I want to see all the Moscow sights!"

Anatoly smiled, far happier to answer his sister's questions. "I have a friend whose family owns the nicest hotel in Moscow. It's right in the middle of the city, near the Bolshoi Theatre. My friend gave me two rooms, one of which I've been staying in during the week we have off. I planned for the two of you to share the other room. It's very big so you won't have to worry about space," he assured.

It was very difficult at that moment for Ilya not to die of disinterest. If Anatoly kept talking about all the rich and famous people he was meeting, Ilya might have to get on a train home before they left the station.

"Wow! You sound like a native Muscovite," Alexandra cheered with her usual vigor.

_Ugh._ If only Anatoly had chosen to go to university in Saint Petersburg, then Ilya would be the real native showing off.

"So, when are we going to be meeting all these friends of yours?" Ilya pried.

"Hopefully tomorrow." Anatoly shuffled with one of the duffel bags on his shoulders as they began walking up the stairs that would lead them to Paveletskaya Square. "Many of them have gone home for the holidays, but a few have stuck around. I've got a coffee planned with a friend from the Journalism department tomorrow, and you are both welcome to join us."

"We'd love to join," gushed Alexandra, "what is he like?"

"Well, actually," Anatoly chuckled.

Ilya tuned the sibling pair out of his mind. It was easier than listening silently, which it appeared he was incapable of doing. He had a stinging feeling that he was going to do something wrong tomorrow and he ought to excuse himself from the meeting, perhaps take a walk around the city instead. But the intrigue got to him. What kind of person would choose to have coffee with Anatoly Sergeevich's pompous ass?

* * *

_ A/N: Hello everyone! I quickly want to apologize for updating late. It's been a rough week and I haven't had a lot of time for writing and checking my email/social media. But this week has given me a lot of time to think about "The Veselovsky Method" and where I want to go with this story. Since the beginning when I first started writing this, I had two main goals: to write about my family's culture, which is not often written about in western culture except for cases like Anastasia, and to improve my English skills. To complete my goals, I have decided that I will only be accepting five SYOC characters out of the submissions I have received. The characters I pick will be the ones that best fit the plotline and that are most accurate to the world. If I don't pick your character, I just want to say thank you so much for submitting and I really appreciate all the effort you put into your character. And to make up for updating late, I will be updating in three days instead of four. Thank you for reading this!_


	5. Chapter Four

_Chapter Four_

Contrary to the morning that Ilya and Alexandra had arrived, the sun shone over the city of Moscow. The thick, grey clouds from yesterday broke and warmth fell over the pair as they walked on the edge of Manezhnaya Square. Although the skies were brighter, the streets remained grey and dull.

"Are you sure we're going the right way?" Ilya asked Alexandra, who held the address Anatoly had written down on a piece of white notebook paper she'd taken from the fancy hotel they'd stayed at overnight.

"Yes, for the hundredth time, I know where I'm going," snapped Alexandra. "The tea place should be just around this corner." With those words, they turned the corner onto the main Manezhnaya Square.

"Wow," said Ilya breathlessly, blown away by the sights. While caught up in their bickering, the pair had forgotten that the Red Square laid just around the corner of Manezhnaya Square. The square was true to its name and stood out against the grey buildings with its bright and vivid flames of color.

"We're going to be late," whispered Alexandra, who was still caught up in the awe.

"_Yeah_," answered Ilya while also caught up in amazement.

They did end up arriving several minutes late. Alexandra wanted a postcard.

When they finally stepped up to the hostess stand near the front entrance, the hostess immediately recognized their names. With a smile, she led them through a bright, lavish floor to a more private corner of the tea room. There sat Anatoly Sergeevich and possibly the most beautiful girl that Ilya had ever seen sipping coffee and talking gently.

"Tolya, sorry we were late," greeted Alexandra with only a hint of guilt in her voice. "We got distracted by the Red Square." Anatoly and his female friend looked up and turned in their direction, laying down their small porcelain cups.

"It's alright, Sasha," assured Anatoly, "I hope you don't mind that we ordered coffee before you arrived. But you're welcome to take a seat and order a tea or coffee as well."

Ilya coughed.

"Ilya, you make take a seat as well." Anatoly gave him a curt nod. Obviously Ilya's words yesterday were not easily forgiven.

"How generous," Ilya dragged.

"How did you find this place?" Alexandra asked after flashing her eyes over the list of teas. "It's so lovely!"

"Well," Anatoly chuckled. Ilya could see where this was going. "I have a friend whose father works in the Kremlin. He told me that his father always comes here on his breaks, so I thought that I would investigate the place and I found it quite to my liking."

"Perhaps you can get me a job at the palace with all your connections," Ilya snorted.

"Sorry, but I don't think they're hiring kitchen boys," Anatoly jeered. But he kept his voice down, probably so his girlfriend wouldn't hear the remark.

Ilya looked over at the girl with light auburn hair. She stirring her coffee with a little laugh, although not making eye contact with him. She glanced up at him with a small smile.

Ilya's grin grew bigger. "Hey, Tolya. At least your girlfriend knows I'm funny."

The girl laughed louder and Anatoly's cheeks reddened. "Nataliya isn't my girlfriend. We're just friends."

"Uh huh," Ilya snickered.

The girl's dark blue eyes finally met his as she smiled again. "_Privet_, Ilya. I've heard a lot about you. And you too, Sasha." She winked at the younger girl. "My name is Nataliya Matveyeva Pavlychko. I'm a journalism student at Moscow State University, which is where I met your brother Anatoly."

"Are you from Moscow?" asked Ilya, eager to hear stories about Anatoly getting lost in the city he claimed to know so well during his early days at university.

"I wish, but I'm not. I moved here two years ago like Anatoly," she explained fondly, much to Ilya's disappointment, "I'm from a small village in Ukraine. Nothing special, really."

"Ukraine?" Alexandra gasped. "That's so far away!"

"But not as far as where some others are from," she added. Nataliya and Anatoly glanced at each other and laughed, clearly sharing an inside joke.

"How did you adjust to Moscow life coming from Ukraine?" asked Alexandra, likely searching for any advice for her own potential move to Capital City.

"Well, I spoke Ukrainian growing up," remarked Nataliya, "which is very similar to Russian, so it was easy to learn the language. But sometimes a joke or two gets lost through cultural barriers."

Ilya questioned that statement. Her Russian sounded perfect, native even. She had an accent but only slightly different from a Muscovite Russian.

"And moving to Moscow was definitely a cultural change. My village was always so quiet and peaceful, so it was difficult getting used to noise at night," she finished.

Alexandra nodded in deep thought. At that moment a waitress arrived at their table.

"Have you decided on what tea you will be ordering?" She asked. "You are allowed to get as many as two teas for your table."

_Oops_, Ilya had completely forgotten to look at the tea list. But, much to his chagrin, Anatoly took control of the situation immediately. He quickly fired off the foreign names of two teas and thanked the waitress for her service. The situation left Ilya annoyed and Alexandra impressed beyond her wildest dreams. While Alexandra asked questions about the tea that her brother had ordered, Ilya remained quiet until the waitress brought over a set of fine hand painted china and two pots of tea.

"No tea for me, please," said Nataliya, politely refusing a teacup with her hand.

"Don't tell me that Anatoly poisoned the tea," Ilya joked.

Nataliya laughed and shook her head. "Strange enough as it is, I'm not the biggest fan of tea," she admitted sheepishly, "I prefer coffee. Makes me feel like a bit of an outsider." She winked at Anatoly.

"Why?" questioned Alexandra, who allowed the waitress to lay a teacup and a small lavender teapot in front of her.

Nataliya took a sip of her black coffee, contemplating. "I've always preferred coffee since I was little for some reason. But I've found that most people in Moscow prefer tea—makes me a bit of an outsider, I guess."

"An old Saint Petersburg soul?" Anatoly grinned, and she laughed a little.

"Do Ukrainians prefer coffee to tea, then?" Ilya asked curiously. He knew that coffee was expensive outside of rich cities like Moscow and Saint Petersburg, so he couldn't imagine anyone in rural Ukraine being able to afford such goods.

Nataliya thought for a moment. "I don't think anyone in my town growing up could afford coffee. Everyone drank either tea or vodka. But every now and then my father and I went to Mykolaiv, our closest city, and perhaps I tried coffee there."

Anatoly nodded in agreement. "We didn't have coffee where we were growing up either. But Sasha and I came to Moscow a few times when we were younger and tried all sorts of different coffees."

"I've had coffee before, too," Ilya responded defensively.

Anatoly noticed that he was ticked and laughed. "Yes, I remember. We were twelve and you spit it out because you couldn't handle the bitterness. It landed on Irina Stepanova's new dress and she wouldn't talk to you for a month!"

"That part didn't happen," Ilya grumbled under his breath.

Alexandra laughed too. "Don't pout, Ilyusha!" she chided playfully. Nataliya simply smiled at him with the hint of a laugh on her lips.

"Not exactly the princely type, are you, Ilya?" Anatoly taunted again.

"Speaking of princes," Alexandra said with a new bright thought in her eyes, "isn't the Tsesarevich living in Moscow now?"

"Don't go there, young lady," Nataliya teased, stifling a laugh, "he is far too old for you. And the Tsar is so protective, he'd never let you get close to his son."

Alexandra frowned. "I'll be eighteen in two months, that's plenty old enough. And how are you so sure about that?"

Nataliya sipped her coffee and shrugged. "It's the vibe that he gives off. And no, just because you're eighteen does not mean you're old enough or mature enough for him. You'll still be in school when you turn eighteen. I was seventeen when I entered university and was definitely too immature to be in a serious relationship."

"And now?" Alexandra asked.

"Still too immature, probably," Nataliya joked.

The two young, awkward men stayed unsure whether they should join the conversation. Anatoly was clearly disturbed by the thought of his little sister in a romantic relationship with anyone and Ilya unskillfully tried to pour himself a cup of tea, which he promptly spilled a little on his clothes.

Alexandra pouted. "I still think he's a bit cute though. From the pictures I saw in the newspapers. Do you really not think that he's at least a little good-looking?"

Nataliya made a face. "I don't know, I'm just not really into blonde men."

Unbeknownst to her, the two dark-haired young men in front of her cautiously straightened up and subtly glared at each other with narrow eyes. Nataliya Matveyeva Pavlychko would not realize it for several more months, but she now sat in front of possibly the two most competitive and love-struck men in the history of Russia.


	6. Chapter Five

_Chapter Five_

It had been one month. The longest month of her young life that Alexandra Sergeevna Mikhailova had ever experienced.

First, she spent all day and night waiting for her selection application letter to arrive, and when a letter addressed to a "Miss Alexandra Sergeevna Mikhailova of Podmoskovye" finally came she immediately ran to her friend Maria Andreeva Kuznetsova and they talked and gossiped all day and night.

Tsar Alexei Yuryevich had proclaimed that three candidates between the ages of eighteen and twenty-three from each federal district would be selected to compete for the Tsesarevich's hand. While Maria had turned eighteen in February, Alexandra turned eighteen on April 28th, just two days before the cutoff date.

Her mother and father didn't approve of the selection. They saw it as elitist and distracting to her studies. In an unusual turn of events, it ended up being her father Sergey who disliked the selection the most. Although he had been the most willing to allow Alexandra and Ilya to go to Moscow to visit Anatoly, he now hated everything about Moscow. Her father made it a rule that under his roof they would not discuss Anatoly's new occupation, Anatoly's female friend, or anything relating to the royal family.

Even Ilya was being strange. When Alexandra was preparing to write her weekly letter to Anatoly, he asked her to ask Anatoly if his friend Nataliya was signing up for the Tsesarevich's selection. "How absurd!" she thought, "why would Ilyusha want to know if Nataliya, who he met once, was signing up for the selection?" It was even stranger when Anatoly wrote back and said that Nataliya and some of her friends from back home in Ukraine were signing up together—Ilyusha looked disappointed.

Alexandra simply brushed it all off as silly boy stuff, which she and Maria had no time for when they planned their double weddings to Tsesarevich Maxim Alexeevich as they sat on the fluffy carpet of Maria's bedroom, calmly discussing matters of love and romance.

"No, for the last time, Masha, you _can't _choose _both _the flowers and table decorations," demanded Alexandra, her hands slamming down the pillow in her arms. "We agreed that we'd each get to pick one."

Maria huffed and crossed her arms. "I still want a spring wedding. We need to have Fabergé egg centerpieces and—"

"No!" Alexandra hissed, "I said no spring wedding!"

"Why not?" Maria shot back.

Alexandra laid her palms on her pillow and released a deep, angry breath to try and calm herself so she could rationally explain the situation to Maria, who was being a complete idiot. "We can't have a spring wedding," she said bitingly, then in a harsh whisper, "because that's when his family died. We don't want to think about dead family on wedding days."

Maria was taken back. "Oh," she said guiltily, "I forgot. Sorry."

Alexandra leaned back and sniffed, tossing her long blonde hair over her shoulders. "You should be. We don't want to mess this up."

"Sasha, what if only one of us get selected?" Maria asked, worried. "And what if both of us don't get selected?"

"That won't happen," Alexandra said confidently, "my brother works in the Kremlin."

"I thought you said he only went in for an interview and he hasn't been chosen yet," said Maria pointed out. "How can you be so confident?"

Alexandra bit her lip. "I'm sure we'll be selected," she repeated with less confidence, "we're better than all the other girls by far. And totally way more _mature_." She tugged at the sides of her pink pillow.

"Yeah," said a slightly brightened Maria.

"By the way, what time is it?" Alexandra asked, suddenly alert knowing the announcement would be broadcasted soon.

"It's…" Maria trailed off, reading the clock on her wall.

"7:59!" both girls screamed.

"Quickly, quickly, turn on the radio," shouted Alexandra as both girls desperately rushed to Maria's fancy radio set. Maria turned the radio on and rolled the knobs around until the loud crackling sounds faded into clear voices.

"And that was a special message from Tsesarevich Maxim Alexeevich for all the hopeful ladies waiting for the big announcement," stated a deep, unnamed male voice on the other side of the radio.

"We missed him talking," Maria cried.

"Shh, listen," Alexandra told her friend impatiently.

"I have just been given the official list of selected competitors, straight from the great Tsar Alexei Yuryevich…"

_Hurry up!_ Alexandra glared at the radio, imagining the announcer's face in her mind. She hugged the pillow in her arms tighter.

"First, from Capital City—Yekaterina Aleksandrovna Lavrora. Congratulations! Next, from the Central Federal District, we have three competitors…"

"Hah, I can't wait to see that _súka _Yelizaveta Grigoryevna's face tomorrow when we both get selected," Maria snickered in a voiced whisper.

"Shut up," Alexandra hushed her friend again, glaring while putting her finger to her lips. Maria listened and nodded, and the two girls focused intently back on the radio.

"First, Irina Andreeva Kurkova of Ryazan. Second…"

Alexandra and Maria froze as the announcer repeated off two more names that did not belong to either of them. A full minute passed, and both girls were too in shock to listen to any of the names being announced. Slowly, Maria shut off the radio.

"Sasha…"

Alexandra fell backward and shoved her pillow into her face, screaming with all her might.

* * *

"Papa...I'm sorry. I know you told me never to—"

"Yes, you should be sorry Nataliya!" yelled Matvey Sylvestrovych Pavlychko over the telephone. "I told you specifically not to sign up for the selection. And what did you do? You signed up against my direct orders and got chosen!"

"I don't get it. What's so bad about the selection?" Nataliya huffed. These long distance calls were expensive, far more than a university student like her could afford. But it was her father that was calling, and he almost broke her roommate Alina's eardrums when she picked up the telephone and he demanded to speak to his trouble-making, rule-breaking daughter. Alina shoved the telephone into Nataliya's hand and ran out of their dorm, claiming she was going to get them dinner.

"It's those people that I don't trust," growled Matvey. Nataliya could practically see his wrinkled face in anger.

"The Tsar and the Tsesarevich?" Nataliya mockingly asked.

"Yes, and the rest of the Tsar's nasty council. I don't trust any of them and you shouldn't either, Natalka," answered Matvey angrily, albeit using her nickname.

"And how do you know about the Tsar's _nasty council_?"

"Don't give me that attitude, Nataliya Matveyeva. I know their type."

Nataliya sighed and pinched her nose. "Papa, you're the one who wanted me to go to Russia, experience the culture, and all that. This is the culture."

"I wanted you to get an education better than you could get in Ukraine. The selection will take away months of studying and set you behind all your peers," shouted Matvey.

"I'll bring my books!"

"My point is that I don't want you to go," he articulated.

Nataliya threw her free hand up in the air. "Well, my name has been broadcasted all over Russia, so there's not much I can do. And it's probably too late for the council to replace me at this point. I'm supposed to be picked up in two days to be taken to the Kremlin Palace. I can't back out now. Anyways, I'll probably be eliminated in the first week."

"You better be."

"Papa!"

"Nataliya Matveyeva," her father said seriously, "I don't care if I have to get on a train to Moscow in the next thirty seconds, you will not be participating in the selection." Ugh. Nataliya ran a hand over her face. This was getting tiring, and _expensive_.

"Papa, I know for a fact that you hate Moscow, Saint Petersburg, and basically everywhere in Russia. You wouldn't come out here for a billion rubles. I am going to participate in the selection no matter what you say and there's nothing you can do to change that."

"Nataliya, you listen to me!" Matvey yelled. She could hear him stomping his heavy, muddy boots on the floor. Her father didn't listen to the radio ("don't listen to all that stupid propaganda," he told her when she was ten), so he must've just returned from work where someone there told him his daughter had been selected.

"Goodbye, Papa," she singsonged as she placed down the telephone. "I send you a letter soon. I love you!"

"Na—" He was cut off.

Nataliya leaned against the wall of her small, quiet dorm room and released a deep breath. What _had _she gotten herself into? One month ago when she told Anatoly's little sister that she wasn't ready for a relationship, she wasn't kidding. But at least innocent, little Alexandra Sergeevna wasn't selected, that would've been way more of a mess.

But Nataliya Matveyeva Pavlychko was a university student that possessed a perfectly nice, unopened bottle of Vodka in her kitchenette cabinet with her name written all over it. Quite literally. Alina was not the best roommate.

But maybe that bottle of Vodka had the wrong name written on it. After all, she was now Lady Nataliya Matveyeva Pavlychko of the Southern Federal District.


	7. Chapter Six

_Chapter Six_

**Moscow State University, Moscow, Russian Empire**

**Friday, May 1st, 2539 - 5:32 PM**

Yekaterina Aleksandrova Lavrova knew that being an aspiring medical school student would be long and difficult work full of unexpected results and events. She worked hard to make sure she was fully prepared to pass her final exams in June to receive her bachelor's degree in Biology, then enter medical school to train to become a world-class surgeon. As her life had seemed so planned out, the last thing she would ever expect in life was a handwritten letter from the Tsar of the great Russian Empire congratulating her on her acceptance to a competition to compete for his son's _hand in marriage_.

It was safe to say that she was not the biggest fan of surprises. _But_, she prided herself on handling them well and with caution.

"Milena Mikhailovna Baratynskaya! Explain yourself!"

The brunette Countess jumped as their dorm room's door slammed shut behind Yekaterina and her pencil flew out of her hand, hitting the wall of their shared dorm room. The petite girl scowled.

"That was mean, Katya" she whined, "why did you scare me like that?

Yekaterina returned her scowl and put her hands on her hips. "Don't play dumb with me. You know what you did. And you better have a good reason to tell the Tsar, _who picked me personally_, why I can't be in his competition."

Milena's face was blank. Yekaterina sighed and waved the letter she received from the Tsar in the air. Her roommate's expression lit up and she squealed.

"You really got in, didn't you!"

Yekaterina was incredulous. "Did you not listen to the radio? You're the one who submitted my name."

Milena laughed awkwardly and twirled her hair. "I forgot?"

"That's not a good excuse."

"Fine," Milena huffed, dropping her act of innocence. "I was on a date with Nikolai and stayed the night with him so I forgot. But how was I supposed to know that you would get selected?"

"Again." Yekaterina threw down her book bag on a grey chair. "Not a good excuse. And, aren't you supposed to still be angry at Nikolai for cheating on you with that blonde girl and taking her to _your _favorite bakery?"

Milena blushed. "_Well_...I talked to Kolya and it turns out it was his cousin. He took her there _because _it was my favorite bakery."

"Uh huh." Yekaterina's arms were crossed, still unimpressed. Her eyes caught the sight of a partially-concealed purple bruise on her friend's neck. The Countess awkwardly pulled the sweater she was wearing higher, noticing Yekaterina's straying eyes. "So what you're telling me," she mused, "is that your makeup sex with Nikolai was so great that you forgot to check if I was accepted into the competition you entered me into behind my back?"

A wide, mischievous smirk broke out on Milena's face. "Wouldn't you like to know, Katya!" she exclaimed.

Yekaterina threw her head back and laughed in disbelief. "_O bozhe_, what am I going to do with you, Mila?" She collapsed down on the chair next to Milena where she had dropped her bag, burying her face in her hands.

Milena's expression turned into a compassionate, yet inspired one. "You need to go to the palace. Win the Tsesarevich's heart and the crown! At least you need to beat Nataliya Matveyeva."

Yekaterina looked up from her hands. "Who?"

Her friend looked at her as if she was crazy. "Nataliya Matveyeva Pavlychko, don't you remember? She's the girl that almost beat you last year in the university beauty contest."

"Repeat that. _Beauty contest_?"

Milena sighed with a sad smile at her pathetic, beautiful friend. "Yes, Katya, a beauty contest. And you won by just a few votes. Consider the selection like the beauty contest and you'll win for sure!"

"How depressing," Yekaterina drawled, "the fate of our great country is coming down to a stressful beauty contest. You're lucky that I handle stress well. If I didn't, I assure you that you would've been six feet under within seconds."

"Katya, you are the only person in the world that enjoys stress," laughed Milena.

Yekaterina leaned against her friend and pretended to be offended. "It is the only thing that keeps me human."

* * *

**Grand Kremlin Palace, Moscow, Russian Empire**

**Wednesday, April 29th, 2539 - 11:57 PM**

Tsar Alexei's tired eyes gazed over the thin, fragile letter. The large leather chair he sat in creaked as he leaned forward to scrutinize the letter further. Faded black ink wrote out the date in curved numbers, _21/3/2529_. A small, brown coffee mark stained the bottom right corner of the page, next to the signed name: _N. Yuryevitch, Tsar of the Russian Empire. _Alexei felt a rush of adrenaline diverging from his tired state to crumple the paper and rip it into shreds. But the Tsar stilled his fingers and dropped the letter, watching it float down onto the polished, wooden desk below.

He looked to his left. The pile of ten applicants that Konstantinov had selected for him to pick one junior advisor from. The top profile was of a young man with dark hair and blue eyes, similar in appearance to the Prime Minister in his younger days. Konstantinov was an obvious fellow, not very good at keeping his opinions secret. It was clear which candidate the Prime Minister preferred. Alexei reached over to the young man's folder and flipped through the pages, skimming over various details. A second-year public administration student at Moscow State University, top of his class in exams, raised a small town near Moscow, and a rising careerman.

The young man would likely be incredibly thrilled to be presented with the opportunity to work inside the Kremlin alongside the likes of Konstantinov and himself. Although Alexei would be unlikely to be seen associating with Konstantinov's newest junior advisor. He did not consider himself above the commoner boy, but the last thing Alexei needed was working with another political enthusiast trying to climb his way up the political ladder. No. He had known far too many of those people and knew too well of the lengths they would go to achieve their goals. The Tsar would leave all that trouble with Konstantinov. Now there was only one thing to do and he uncovered his royal insignia stamp.

"Anatoly Sergeevich Mikhailov," Alexei read articulately, "welcome to the Kremlin."

* * *

**Fifty Kilometers Outside of Moscow, Moscow Oblast, Russian Empire**

**Saturday, May 1st, 2539 - 9:12 PM**

"Sasha! Did you move my clothes again?" yelled Ilya, looking into his small, empty closet. Ever since Alexandra was rejected from the Tsar's competition and her "truest love," she needed something to keep her feeling in control. For Alexandra, that was constantly rearranging furniture, clothing, shelves of food, and more. Her mother, Maria Pavlova, was understandably angry with her daughter for her flighty actions but was cooled by Sergey's reminders that their daughter was still a young girl. Not hearing a response, Ilya decided to call again. "Sasha!"

Once again, hearing no response, Ilya prepared to call out again. But before he could, Alexandra loudly ran—or rather, flew—down the stairs to the basement where Ilya stayed. Her cheeks were cherry red and her light blonde hair was wild and falling out of her makeshift bun. She skidded to stop in front of him, red-faced and out of breath.

"Il-" she coughed and took a deep breath, "Ilya. S-someone is calling on the telephone for you. Someone important."

"The telephone?" Ilya questioned. Although almost every middle-class family had one in their house, telephones were extremely expensive to use and not a luxury that the Mikhailovs would care to spend on him of all people.

"Stop talking and get your ass upstairs!" Alexandra shouted at him, shoving at his shoulders. Ilya groaned and pushed Alexandra's arms away, albeit following her instructions. Slowly, he walked across the room and up the stairs (much to the blonde's chagrin). When he arrived at the top of the stairs, he saw Maria Pavlova gripping the grey telephone tightly, and frantically waving him over once she caught his eye.

Ilya remained confused but accepted the telephone and asked, "Hello?"

"Hello, Mr. Ilya Nikolayevich Mikhailov," said the voice on the other side, using Ilya's adopted surname, "my name is Mikhail Sokolov. I am the chief of staff for His Imperial Majesty at the Kremlin Palace and you have been hired to serve at the Kremlin Palace for the duration of His Imperial Majesty's competition," said the chief of staff in his deep, official-sounding voice.

"I'm sorry, Sir," Ilya apologized, confused, "I never applied to work in the palace or for the Tsar—I mean, His Imperial Majesty!"

"You have been hired by the chief junior political advisor, you will arrive in Moscow within two days time and fulfill your station," said Mr. Sokolov, rather impatiently.

"Sir, I think you have the wrong man," Ilya pleaded.

"Nonsense," the man huffed, "Mr. Mikhailov requested you personally." Ilya could hear the sound of a clock ticking on the other end of the telephone connection, which he might have thought was the chief of staff counting the seconds that he had to argue with him.

Ilya froze. "Repeat that name?" he asked meekly.

"Mr. Mikhailov. Mr. Anatoly Sergeevich Mikhailov."

Ilya instantly felt faint. He grabbed onto the table in front of him where the telephone machine sat to steady himself. Could Anatoly really have remembered the joke that Ilya made over a month ago? And was he really making Ilya's joked wish come true? "I'm sorry, Sir," Ilya said weakly, "I don't think I can do this job."

"Look, young man, if this is an attempt to get better pay because of Mr. Mikhailov selecting you personally, it won't work," said Mr. Sokolov strictly. "The pay of two hundred thousand rubles every two weeks has already been set."

"Two hundred...thousand rubles per week," Ilya repeated slowly. He heard loud gasps from behind him, and he turned to see that Alexandra, Maria, and Sergey had gathered to listen for news about the strange telephone call. Ilya didn't know whether to have a heart attack or be as excited as Alexandra on her eighteenth birthday. "I can make two hundred thousand rubles per week?"

"Yes, Mr. Mikhailov. Two hundred thousand rubles per week," Mr. Sokolov asserted, clearly wanting to finish their conversation. "Now, can His Imperial Majesty and I expect you in Moscow in two days time?"

Ilya looked over at the Mikhailov family present, whose surname it appeared that Ilya had now officially adopted. They watched him eagerly, and Alexandra was leaning forward so much that it appeared like she was two seconds away from falling out of her chair.

"Yes, Sir. I'll see you in Moscow."

* * *

(Hello! I decided to add in the location/date information to make pov changes clearing since I will be using multiple povs in more chapters continuing on.)


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